I go to wave, but her attention is taken by another teammate who comes up and hugs her.
I turn to gofind Logan once more.
Now
It’s Thanksgiving and we’re playing against the Chimeras once again. Hopefully we can pull out a win. Elle is back home with her family since we’re away at the Chimeras. I roll out of the hotel bed to see a picture message from her. Her face is flushed and she’s in a racing bib. She’s wearing leggings and a tight racing shirt. Her dad and brother on either side of her in their racing attire.
Apparently, her family is one of those that races the morning of Thanksgiving. Following the picture is a message that reads:
Ellie: I’m dying. Everything jiggled. I almost puked at mile 4. Easton convinced me to do shots last night. But 6.2 miles later, I finished. How the hell did I do this regularly in college?
Ellie: Can’t wait to watch you later. Your ass always looks fantastic in the grey pants.
Archer: Thanks, I try, never skip the squats. Can I ask what your time was? Or is the wanting to puke a sign that I shouldn’t ask. Ellie: 49 minutes.
I roll my eyes and chuckle. I should be more understanding, since I have no idea what it’s like to stop and try to pick my sport back up, but 49 minutes for a 10k is decent, especially for someone who barely trained. Sure, she works out but she didn’t actively train for this race.
I grab my bags and head to the hotel lobby where I meet the team in preparation for the game.
Chapter 42
Elle
Idon’t know who has yelled more at the TV tonight, me or Dad. The Chimeras are playing dirty. Archer has been sacked twice, and I nearly jumped out of my seat the second time, terrified when it took him longer than usual to get back up.
By some miracle, the Wolves are still leading.
The smell of Thanksgiving dinner drifts through the house, mingling with the faint scent of Mom’s pumpkin candle on the counter. Plates are half-full, Easton’s cranberry sauce forgotten on the table, because right now, all anyone can do is watch the Wolves and by default, Archer.
Dad’s leaning forward in his chair, fists clenched, yelling at the TV like he can block Archer from here. Easton is muttering the downfall of the Chimeras while pacing, never one to sit still. Erica’s phone sits abandoned, her eyes glued to the tv.
The Wolves have the ball with two minutes left, in the Chimeras home turf, stadium packed, filled with fans decked out in green and silver. Archer’s breathing is heavy on the screen, helmet scuffed, grass stains streaked on his jersey. The camera is zoomed in on him, he’s mouthing plays, but the audiois drowned out by the sound of the crowd. My stomach twists as he drops back, the defensive line surging forward.
Archer scans the field; his eyes find Ty breaking free. He throws; Tyson snatches it, spins past a defender, and takes it twenty-two yards downfield. I leap from the couch, spilling some cider, and scream. Dad grabs my arm, laughing, Easton whoops while Mom claps from across the room. Even Erica is impressed.
The Wolves are inside the 20-yard line. Archer huddles, calling a play, reading the defense. I watch as Archer drops back. Looks left, looks right. Throws to Cal Monroe, a late season trade, in the corner of the end zone. Touchdown Wolves!
Dad jumps up with me, the two of us cheering, Mom laughs in glee. Archer jogs off the field as Daniel Boggs takes the kick for the extra point.
That’s it, that’s game. Wolves win!
We’re digging into pie when my phone rings. Archer’s handsome face flashes on the screen. I quickly grab my phone and scurry to the other room. My beloved baby sister makes kissy noises after me.
“Hey,” his voice rumbles through the speaker, warm and rough from exhaustion.
“Hey!” I say, “You won! And you didn’t get carted off the field!”
Archer’s chuckle vibrates through the phone, low and tired. “Yeah...”
“You sound tired.” I sit by my reading window from my childhood. I bring my knees to my chest and rest my phone on my shoulder.
“I am,” he admits, voice quiet for a second. “But talking to you makes everything better. Makes me forget how many times I got slammed today.”
“How are you feeling?
“Sore.”
We linger on the line, talking about the game, the hits, the plays, and the inspirational speech coach gave that Archer swears should be nominated for an Oscar.
